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‘I was only . . . ’
‘Fuck it,’ Nnam did not bother in Luganda.
The aunt melted away.
As more of Nnam’s relations arrived so did a gang of middle-aged
women. Nnam did not know who invited them. One thing was clear
though; they were angry. Apparently, Nnam’s story was common. They
had heard about her plight and had come to her aid. The women
looked like former, nkuba kyeyo– the broom swinging economic
immigrants to the West. They were dressed expensively. They mixed
Luganda and English as if the languages were sisters. They wore weaves
or wigs. Their makeup was defiant as if someone had dared to tell them
off. Some were bleached. They unloaded crates of beer and cartons of
Uganda Waragi. They brought them to the tent where Nnam sat with
her family and started sharing out. One of them came to her and asked,
‘You are the Nnameya from Manchester?’ She had a raspy voice like
she loved her Waragi.
Nnam nodded and the woman leaned closer.
‘If you want to do crying widow thing, go ahead, but leave the rest to
us.’
‘Do I look like I am crying?’
The woman laughed triumphantly. It was as if she had been given
permission to do whatever she wanted to do. Nnam decided that the
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